Master and Commander
by ShinyGreenApple
Summary: Hector Barbossa had not wept in years upon years, and had come to think of it as a weakness, one that he surely must be above . . .


**Author's note: **Done for the "Worst nightmare ever" Witching hour prompt on the LiveJournal community, pirategasm.

"_Dammit_."

He had lost count of how many times he had stepped on conch shells since arriving here, and though he knew he should be glad when the time came at which his boots would be dry and he could have them back, all he could think of was how unbearably hot they would be on his feet. He stopped, staring mundanely at the ground before him. Besides the many shells that had afflicted him, he saw his own tracks, leading away on the trek he had begun less than two hours before hand.

Frustration and slight panic threatening to get the better of his senses, he strode a short distance into the sparse scattering of palms and began to cast off everything save for his shirt and breeches before sinking to the ground, sweaty and exhausted, eyes closed, noticing that his mouth had grown rather dry. He regretted now that he had chosen to take a walk in the heat of the day, and though he allowed his fingers to toy with the edge of his flask, he did not drink, thinking it would be wiser to take a mouthful later that night to make sleeping slightly more comfortable. For as long as he could remember, he had never been able to sleep well while being plagued with thirst; it had become ritual for his mother to leave a glass of water beside his bed at night when he was a small boy. But he knew it would be foolhardy to expect the meager portion sloshing about in its container right now to last until the following evening, if there was even any left by the end of the night. He was taken from his sullen thoughts when Jack clambered onto his lap and stared up at him, his head tilted to one side and the large, dark eyes gazing up at him in some semblance of concern for his master. He idly reached out to scratch the creature's head, suddenly glad that he had at least this one comfort left to him.

It had been surreal, really, opening his cabin door that morning and finding the entire crew waiting for him, their intentions of betrayal evident in their eyes. It had been infuriating to be taken by them, resisting with whatever means necessary; he was quite sure he had broken at least two noses in the process, but numbers had certainly not been on his side and he had found himself shortly afterwards sitting in one of his own longboats, bound at the wrists, being rowed ashore. It hadn't taken him long, despite his bonds, to clumsily draw his sword and sever them with it, but when reached for his pistol, his ferrymen had laughed at him.

"Wouldn't do that if was you," one of them had jeered. "You'll be wantin' ter save that shot, Governor."

"You'll burn in the blazes o' hell fer this! Ye'll all burn!" But his shouts of anger at their betrayal, like his attempt to draw weapon, had been simply laughed down, and though he might have turned his back, he was unable to stop himself from watching with longing and a heavy heart as the great black ship grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

As the day had worn on, a small part of him had hoped against hope that there might have been a few still loyal to him that would manage to get it turned round to come back for him, but as the sun sank lower to give way for the moon, giving no care for him, his hopes started to wane. He began to regret now more than ever his actions with Bootstrap, wondering if anyone would be killed or drowned as punishment for defending his captain.

He glanced up now, and his heart leapt to see two people, a man and woman, standing a short distance away, watching him with calm curiosity. He leapt to his feet and sprinted in their direction, conch shells be damned. Surely if they of all people were here, than a ship must not be far off; they were both captains, after all. His stomach lurched slightly, remembering that one of them was in possession of a ship that he would rather not board, but even that looked more promising than being left to shrivel on a tiny, seemingly forsaken spot of land. But as he drew near them, they only smiled before turning from him and running away, then vanishing altogether.

"Turner!" He stumbled and fell, earning a mouthful of sand in the process. "Turner get back here, both of yeh! Ungrateful brats, I married ye for God's sake!" He collapsed into the sand, panting heavily and fearing that his mind was already beginning to go. It seemed weeks ago already since he had been abandoned, though only meager hours had passed, and the strangest part of it all was that, when he thought back on it, he could not even remember who had led the uprising against him. He would not have been surprised had it been his former friend and captain; Jack had already shown no hesitance about trying to put another bullet in his head, but he had been left behind, hundreds of miles away on the docks of Tortuga. Perhaps though, it didn't matter now who had done it, as nothing changed the fact that he was alone, with no shelter, no one to talk to, and that the death by starvation and thirst that had been unattainable for so long would likely greet him in a few short days.

After sunset, he had taken to sitting on the beach, knees drawn up and his arms about them, staring at the sea as it churned upon the shore, and he felt that it was taunting him with the fact that he could not depart with the retreating waves. It was only when he felt the wet warmth of his own tears sliding silently down his face that he truly began to accept the reality of the situation. He yanked the hat from his head, throwing it down in the sand, irritated with himself. He had not wept in years upon years, and had come to think of it as a weakness, one that he surely must be above. One solitary thought, however, kept overruling whatever other ideas may have been attempting to poison his mind as he sat upon the lonely and deserted shore, staring at the tracks he had made earlier:

It really wasn't all that big.


End file.
